We All Fall Down

by Rosemary Friedman

  “It’s a girl! With the prettiest little bottom you’ve ever seen. I wish we sold binoculars.”

  He leaned as far as he could out of his window. She was fair-skinned and wearing a black bikini. Her hair was blonde and tied in a knot, as far as he could make out, on top of her head. She was standing up, her legs planted apart, and appeared to be searching the beach as though looking for somebody. Her profile, against the sky, was classic.

  “Hey Dad!” Victor called into the back, “can somebody look after my window for a moment?”

  “Why? You’ve only just arrived.”

  “Urgent business. I shan’t be long.”

  “Ask Howard if he minds,” Arthur said.

  Howard said he really didn’t see how he could give his proper attention both to ice-creams and fancy-goods, but before he had finished grumbling Victor had gone.

  Vanessa looked up in sympathy from her candy-floss stand beneath Howard’s side window. He could see the smooth line of her throat and the evenness of her teeth as she smiled. He noticed quite suddenly, and with a small shock, that she really was a very pretty girl.

  Eight

  “Excuse me,” Victor said. “Were you looking for someone?”

  The girl turned towards him, put one hand on her hip, tilted her stomach towards him, the navel well in evidence above her brief pants, pouted and stared at him.

  “I might be,” she said, her baby face assuming an expression she believed to be sultry.

  “Well…er…could I be of any help?”

  “On holiday?” she said.

  “Not exactly. My father owns that café,” he pointed towards ‘Le Casse-Croûte’. “I help him.”

  “What happened to Joe?”

  “Joe?”

  “Had the place last year.”

  “My father bought it from him.”

  “Smartened it up a bit.”

  “Oh, yes, we’ve done a lot of work on it. You see when Joe had it…”

  She wasn’t listening. She had forgotten to pout and was looking up and down the beach again.

  “You’d better go. I’m expecting someone.”

  “Look,” Victor said. “Can I see you sometime?”

  She gave him her attention again, looking him up and down from where the hair flopped over his eyes, to the open-necked shirt, his grey trousers and his sandals.

  “Please,” Victor said. The top of her bikini scarcely covered her breasts. He could see where the suntan stopped in a clearly defined line like Neapolitan ice-cream.

  She intercepted his glance. “Praps you’d better ask your Dad,” she said, to punish him.

  “I’m twenty-one,” Victor lied, hurt. “I know I don’t look very old but…”

  “I was joking. I’m on the darts at Merrydown Park. The first darts as you come in.” She was searching the beach again. “You’d better go,” she added suddenly, forgetting to undulate or pout. She turned her back on him.

  “I don’t know your name.”

  “Petal,” she said without turning round. She began to comb her hair. “Now beat it.”

  Victor, stepping over beflagged sand-castles, made his way towards the promenade. Halfway up the steps he found his way blocked by somebody coming down. He stood to one side. “Sorry,” he said, and looked up. Astride, across the steps was one of the largest, meanest looking Teddy boys he had ever seen. He was about six feet tall, had oily, black hair which swept thickly back from his low forehead and trickled down a black suit which narrowed rapidly from ridiculously broad shoulders to ludicrously narrow trousers, luminous green socks and black shoes with no laces but elastic sides. His mouth drooped downwards, in a pallid, puddingy face beneath a prominent nose; his eyes leered dully from beneath heavy lids and his tie appeared to be nothing but a piece of black string. He made no effort to progress down the steps in the space Victor had created. Having been taught, the hard way, during ten years of Prep. and Public School, that one of the primary requisites of any male is to act at all times like a gentleman, Victor retreated to the soft sand at the bottom of the steps. Only then did the apparition, hunching his enormous shoulders and fixing Victor with a blood-curdling glare, descend to the beach.

  “I say! Don’t say thank you, will you,” Victor said to the draped, receding back. Fortunately for him the wind was blowing in from the sea, and his remark was heard only by some small girl clutching a pair of water wings who was waiting to come down the steps.

  When the long August day finally ended the sun, a great fiery sphere, having extinguished itself in the sea, Arthur Dexter, alone, still sat in the back kitchen of ‘Le Casse-Croûte’ doing the books. The tide had come up, bringing up with it the crowds from the beach, clamouring for refreshment, and was now lapping slowly out again into the evening sky. ‘Le Casse-Croûte’ had filled and refilled. Sticky hands had helped themselves to buns and sandwiches, sun-dried voices asked for orangeade and tea, purses spilled half-crowns and shillings.

  Arthur Dexter, busy, a sandwich by his side, was in his element. He was working, it was true, but not so hard that he had no time to think. He was wondering, as he often did, how he had actually made the stupendous effort of tearing himself away and coming to Whitecliffs at all. Vera had opposed him, there had been tears, rows, threats and pleadings; Vanessa had argued with him; it had not been easy for him to arrange for his business to jog along without him (only to keep going; he knew that in his absence it would make no profit and might indeed fail altogether); but there had been, in those strange weeks immediately after Willie’s death, something driving him on. It was something which Vera did not recognise, and Doctor Gurney could not cure; it was something which he had been unaware dwelt within him, and which he had allowed to have its head; it was perhaps the last flicker of what remained of the world-compassing hopes of adolescence, the strength of young manhood to accomplish anything at all, the fight that still remained with the coming of maturity, the upsurge of second wind as the race was nearly run. Whatever it was, it had got him to Whitecliffs and had been sufficiently strong to sweep with him, his wife and children, Basil, Howard, Honey and Louise and her old mother. Whatever it was, it had cajoled, persuaded, removed obstacles, attacked and conquered. But whatever it was that had moved all these mountains, Arthur admitted to himself four months later, had now gone. He had still the results of his tremendous endeavour to live with, had yet to see that what he had done was good and right, but for the moment he was glad that strength had been given him to do it, and that he was, for the time being at any rate, Arthur Dexter of ‘Le Casse-Croûte’, rather than Arthur Dexter of Dexter Toys, daily buried afresh in the smoky coffin of the City.

  Arthur wrote down ‘buns, rolls, small Rich Tea, ice-cream cones and two gross of boats with sails’ and thought about the little family he had brought to Whitecliffs. The slowest worker was undoubtedly Howard, the most scatter-brained surely Honey, the most industrious, the capable Louise, and the quietest, Doctor Gurney, who stood all day at the cash register and appeared to be thinking of something else.

  The early days had been fun for all of them. There had been the exhilarating freedom of unbounded access to the sea and to the sun, the task of settling in their new flats in Shore Court, and the greater one of creating order and a smart little beach café from the tumbledown shack that had been ‘Joe’s’. They had made mistakes, many of them, but after three weeks of really hard work, ‘Le Casse-Croûte’ had stood, spanking fresh, opposite its Corporation rival, as though it had always been.

  Arthur and Louise, the most business-minded of them all, had dwelt with the equipping, general ordering and stock. Basil and Vanessa had redeemed the back yard and created a ‘garden’, painting the tables pink and blue and yellow. Doctor Gurney and Howard had composed all the notices and price lists, and Victor, doing research along the coast, and provided the idea of selling candy-floss, fancy-goods and toffee-apples. Honey had kept them laughing and provided them all with cups of tea at appropriate moments. None of them knew anyt
hing about catering. How could they know how many scoops of tea to a half gallon tea-pot? That toffee only adhered to certain types of apple? That it was an uneconomical (although charming) gesture to provide paper serviettes? That their wish to provide good quality teaspoons would be frustrated by the fact that they nearly all disappeared during the opening week? That to make sandwiches with too much ham, too much egg or too much tomato, would eat a big hole in the profits? Between them they produced several good and workable ideas. The first, one upon which they agreed unanimously, was that all food should be wrapped. It was also to be promptly served in order to avoid the formation of a queue such as there invariably was at the Corporation Café opposite. They agreed to provide music, to attract the young people, from a record-player, pictures on the walls and aspirins for headaches. The cups were to be examined carefully for stains and cracks before they were allowed on to the trays, and the customers, in accordance with policy, were to be always right. They found a small, wrinkled man, as old as the sea and as grey, to keep the garden swept, the crocks cleared and the tables wiped, a Mrs Boil, whose name nobody believed, to do the washing-up, and a firm to paint the outside of the café for them and supply them with their particular brand of ice-cream.

  After days of preparation, excitement and speculation, ‘Le Casse-Croûte’, painted, stocked and christened, was opened to the public. On the opening day, Doctor Gurney, whose task was to operate the cash register, stood too near to the unfamiliar machine as he took the money offered by the first customer, tapped out 2/2 ½d smartly, and was winded for several moments as he was struck in the solar-plexus by the drawer. Apart from this and one or two other minor mishaps, all went smoothly. They had ordered too many biscuits and not enough rolls; they had trouble with the tea-leaves in the pots for the beach, until somebody thought of tea-bags; they forgot the ham in the ham sandwiches and sometimes gave the wrong change; they persevered, all glad to be occupied, until things began to run smoothly, and divorce petitions (Howard), midnight oil over chapters that wouldn’t come (Basil), shampoos and sets (Louise) and the glare of the spotlight (Honey) were forgotten temporarily in a whirl of teas and buns and ices and milk shakes and trays for the beach and the garden.

  Whitecliffs was unused to Arthur’s arbitrary business methods.

  “I want a dozen cases of butter puffs,” Arthur said on the telephone during the opening week to one wholesaler.

  “Certainly, sir, our van will be calling Tuesday or Wednesday of next week.”

  “Useless,” Arthur Dexter said. “I want them first thing in the morning or I shall take my order elsewhere…”

  At Whitecliffs, sleepy on the seashore, they were unaccustomed to such haste. One or two wholesalers, however, had recognised a businessman and what was likely to be a good account when they saw one, and had agreed to supply ‘Le Casse-Croûte’ on Arthur Dexter’s own terms. Now, Arthur had only to lift the phone and announce his name before the ice-cream wafers, the chocolate tea-cakes or the fifty pounds of tea (catering quality) were on the road.

  At ten o’clock, Arthur, satisfied that all was in order at the café, walked beneath the stars and within sight of the black, mysterious sea towards the flats. As he went up the little path towards the entrance of Shore Court he saw, through the glass, a shadow come out of Honey’s flat which was on the ground floor, and a flash of white. Inside he heard light footsteps running up the stairs and, as he stood outside his own flat searching for his key, he heard the door of Basil’s flat above click softly shut.

  Vera was already in bed. He looked at her, not yet sleeping, thinking, here’s the rub.

  “I’m going to town tomorrow,” Vera said.

  “All right.”

  “I think I shall need a sleeping tablet. They’re in the drawer, Arthur.”

  “If only you’d relax, Vera…”

  “In this place?”

  “Try to be happy…” He passed the box of small pink tablets.

  “Do you know what the time is, Arthur?”

  “After ten.”

  “You’re working harder than you did at home. What are you trying to prove?”

  “This isn’t work. This is something to keep me occupied. I’m free, Vera, free; sometimes I just stand in the kitchen, or behind the counter or on the beach…”

  “You look so foolish with your hanky on your head; why don’t you buy a panama?…”

  “…and simply think about anything that comes into my head. Or watch the children…”

  “…you were never all that interested in your own…”

  “I hadn’t time…and smile when I think that no one’s coming to dinner, and that we don’t have to go out, don’t have to change, make polite, repetitive conversation…”

  “There’s not a soul to talk to. Will you want a tablet?”

  “I sleep like a log and wake a young man…if I forget to look in the mirror…but when I do I think of Willie. Vera…?”

  “Yes, Arthur?”

  He had wanted to say, “Please try! Please try to be happy.” He had no language with which to communicate.

  He said: “Try to remember we’re out of fishing-nets.”

  “I shall be in town.”

  “Of course. Goodnight.”

  “Good night, Arthur.” Vera turned over and waited for the sleeping pill to work.

  Upstairs, Basil and Honey sat grimly, one each side of the dressing-table.

  Basil, his dressing-gown over his shirt and trousers, had been writing to his wife before going to bed when his front door bell had rung. Wondering whom it could be so late, he opened the door.

  Outside in the dim light of the landing, smiling, stood Honey. Basil groaned, and half shut the door.

  “Oh, Honey, no!” he said. “Go away. Last night was a mistake, and I’m sorry about it. Go away, there’s a good girl, before somebody sees you.”

  Honey, in tight, white trousers and a black, sleeveless shirt, opened her eyes wide.

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” she said. “I hurried with my ironing and I came to tell you about me. You know, for your book; like you said.”

  Basil hesitated, wishing she wouldn’t wear her clothes so tight.

  “Are you sure that’s why you came?”

  “Why else? There’s never any time during the day.”

  “All right,” Basil said ungraciously, and held the door wide so that Honey did not have to walk too near him as she passed.

  He took Honey into the bedroom, which was his workroom, before he realised that perhaps it was a mistake. He pulled a chair up opposite his own on the other side of the dressing-table from which he had removed the mirror.

  “You sit over there,” he said firmly and, finding a notebook and his pen, told her to begin.

  “I don’t quite know where,” Honey said nervously, lowering her eyelashes until they sent long shadows down her cheeks. “Perhaps it might be easier if we had a little drink.”

  Basil sighed and going into the sitting-room poured her a whisky.

  “Aren’t you joining me?” Honey said, raising her glass.

  “No, I am not. And when you’re ready I think you’d better begin at the beginning,” he said sternly.

  Honey DuPont had been born Doreen Maloney in a ‘single-end’ in the back streets of Liverpool. Her grandmother, who was still alive, and still prided herself on her looks, had been a Gaiety girl. Her mother, once a palely pretty blonde, had been a soubrette until the seemingly endless stream of little Maloneys started to arrive, and although she still continued to read The Stage weekly from cover to cover and still spoke of herself as being in show business, she had never managed to make her often threatened come-back. Honey’s father, whom she had never seen but from whom she inherited her black hair and laughing blue eyes, had been a seaman who returned to Liverpool sufficiently often to father another small Maloney, then disappeared to far-off lands leaving his wife to cope as best she could, which wasn’t very well. Having fathered Honey, William Obadiah Maloney
had grown tired of Liverpool and still more tired of his wife Annie, who grew fatter and less comely with every flying visit and, disappearing as usual into the muddy waters of Liverpool, forgot on this occasion to come back. Annie Maloney waited only so long for his return, then took up with one George Hackett who was something, what exactly she was never sure, to do with greyhounds. Whatever it was he did brought him a large amount of cash money, which he was willing to spend as fast as he got it on Annie and her little brood. The family prospered, changed its name ‘en masse’ to that of its benefactor, and moved from its dockland slum where Honey spent her school days. She was brought up in a free and easy, if at times ribald, atmosphere, in which her own good nature blossomed, and found life singularly uncomplicated. She listened goggle-eyed to stories of the theatre from her mother and grandmother, and at school sat yawning through her lessons, waiting for the gym or games sessions in which she could practise her backbends, cartwheels and high-kicks before a circle of friends who marvelled at her agility. At fifteen she was neglecting her homework to sing, after school, with the band at the local dance-hall, and at sixteen, calling herself Honey DuPont, she got a job as soubrette with a seaside Follies company. It was here that she met and married her husband, Jimmy, who was the comic in the show. After this she followed the customary round of the bottom rung of show business; pantomime at Walham Green and Hackney; fit-up concert parties at Strutton in Devon, Rock in Cornwall; number three, tatty dates, the Hume Theatre, Manchester, Collins’ Music Hall, more Follies in the summer, an endless succession of dreary digs, spangled dresses, often grubby, and tights, as often as not with holes in. Then came the break. Jimmy landed the job of comic at the Ambassador Luncheon Club and managed to persuade them to take his wife as a show-girl. Honey’s was the more enviable task; poor Jimmy had to crack the same gags three shows a day, often to the same set of business-men who were unwilling to be amused, and had come only to see the girls. In any case, they were not very good gags to begin with, but the pay was good and the comic act was necessary to give the club a vaguely respectable front as a ‘show’ rather than merely ‘showgirls’! From the luncheon club Honey progressed to the Revue in which Arthur Dexter had found her, and where she firmly believed that it was the few lines she sang in a not unpleasant contralto that brought the applause, rather than the fact that she was wearing only a feather when she sang them. Her ambition still was to be a pop singer, preferably on the TV or radio, and she believed that with her West End date she was now well on the way to achieving it. As far as her marriage was concerned she and Jimmy had long ago come to an amicable arrangement in which they helped each other up the ladder of show business (Honey had got Jimmy the comic’s spot in the Revue) and shared the same flat and the rent. Whether they happened to share the same bed depended upon whether either of them was otherwise engaged at the time. They welcomed each other’s friends to the flat and several times a week gave jolly parties at which everyone sat on the floor and talked about themselves, most people got drunk, and which only the dawn disrupted. Since neither of them started work until after lunch, unless there happened to be a rehearsal, this did not matter at all, and they usually woke at noon to a welter of empty bottles, full ashtrays and ejected olive stones.